


six kinds of glue

by andymcnope



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-22
Updated: 2014-10-22
Packaged: 2018-02-22 03:56:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2493506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andymcnope/pseuds/andymcnope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s a lot like playing russian roulette with the safety on. Root knows they can’t do anything, but it certainly doesn’t mean they won’t. (Ep tag to 4x05 Prophets)</p>
            </blockquote>





	six kinds of glue

**Author's Note:**

> SPOILERS FOR 4X05 PROPHETS

Shaw tosses the bag at Root just as the hacker gets to the top of the stairs.

 

Root barely manages to catch it since she’s only got one free hand, her face twisting in confusion as she reaches the hotel room. She holds the bag between her teeth as she manages to unlock the hotel room one-handedly, the arm in a sling still largely unusable.

 

(It’s a crappy motel practically in Jersey, but its closed circuit went out three years before and management hasn’t seemed too interested in fixing it. That and the old-style locks were a big sell for the place.)

 

“One thousand disguises?” Root reads from the label as she drops her stuff on the wobbly wooden table.

 

Shaw shrugs as she enters the room. “Broke into an auction house last night through the novelty shop next door,” she offers as an explanation.

 

Root opens the bag, lets the contents spill: a fake mustache, plastic buckteeth, cheap sunglasses. Her face breaks into a wide grin, for the first time in— she’s not sure, but the muscle movement feels strange.

 

“Did Harold send you?” Root asks as she takes off her hair clip, lets her hair cascade down.

 

“You severely underestimate my skills if you think I need Harold or The Machine to help me track you,” Shaw offers in lieu of a real answer.

 

She closes the door behind her, peeks outside the curtain still in full soldier mode; Root’s room has the best vantage point, she knew what she was doing when she picked it, and Shaw relaxes after a few; Root’s already kicked her shoes off and started removing her makeup (she was Giselle tonight, bronzed cheeks and foreign accent).

 

Root starts to unbutton her shirt one-handedly in the artificial lighting of the motel room bathroom; Shaw leans against the doorway. 

 

“You’re not invincible, you know?” Shaw comments.

 

“Haven’t lost yet,” Root replies, loosening the sling with her teeth.

 

“Not for a lack of trying, apparently,” Shaw adds as she reaches over to move Root’s shirt out of the way. “Through and through?”

 

Root nods, exposing one of the bandages. “And a graze,” she adds, pulling her other arm out of the sleeve. 

 

“Careless,” Shaw admonishes as she reaches for the medicine cabinet and takes out the first aid kid.

 

“Your number survived, didn’t he?” Root challenges; it’s all bravado, but she can’t let Shaw see how ready she was to sacrifice herself. 

 

_“I think she already knows,”_ Harold had said. Root doesn’t want to think about it; doesn’t want to consider that if she got caught at a dead end, Shaw might try to rescue her. Root can’t afford that.

 

( _If it happens,_ Root thinks, _let it be clean._ )

 

“You’re risking your cover,” Root switches gears as Shaw peels the bandage off.

 

“I don’t wanna hear it,” Shaw replies. “This looks like a fucking mess. Where did you go, St. Lukes?”

 

Root nods and bites her lip as Shaw presses against the stitched edges; she’s not even sure where the latex glove came from.

 

“Amateurs,” Shaw scoffs. “That’s definitely gonna leave a scar.”

 

“Guess no bikinis for a while, hmm?” Root teases.

 

Shaw steals a quick glance at the cups of Root’s bra before meeting Root’s eyes. “I’m just saying, I could’ve done a much better job if I had been the one shot,” Shaw points out. “And that would’ve been with just one hand.”

 

Root weighs her options; the bathroom is small and the vanity is digging into her hipbone. The innuendo is at the tip of her tongue, her eyes falling to Shaw’s ungloved fingers splayed against her ribs.

 

She holds the comment back, along with her breath.

 

Shaw pours hydrogen peroxide over the wound; waits for the fizzling to die out. It doesn’t burn like it did at first, skin turning pink as it heals; instead it just stings a little. Shaw repeats the action; the fizzling takes half as long. The waterproof bandage goes on next, her fingers pressing it tightly into place.

 

Root exhales as the back of Shaw’s fingers trace from her ribcage down to her hips; the barest of touches, but Root’s heart rate spikes almost as high as when she shot through the hotel floor. 

 

(It’s a lot like playing russian roulette with the safety on. Root knows they can’t do anything, but it certainly doesn’t mean they won’t.)

 

Shaw takes care of the second wound as well, muttering that at least it hadn’t needed stitches. 

 

Root rolls her head from one side to the other; her hair comes to rest on Shaw’s bare arms, and her breath catches when Shaw doesn’t move away. 

 

The second clean bandage goes on like a charm, pressed tightly into place. 

 

“This is a lot better than changing my own bandages,” Root finally says as Shaw pulls her sling back into place; neither comments on the fact Root’s still in just a bra and black slacks.

 

“Had to make sure you weren’t dead from sepsis,” Shaw replies as she cinches the sling.

 

“Satisfied?” Root asks; they’re still in the tiny bathroom and she can feel Shaw’s warm breath against her shoulder.

 

Shaw glances up at her, eyes locked into hers as the dare hangs in the air.

 

“Do you ever stop to think that you’re willing to die for a machine that isn’t willing to die for you?” 

 

Root breaks the eye contact first, glances at the moldy shower behind Shaw. “Samaritan can’t win.”

 

“What’s the point of winning the war if no one else is left standing?” Shaw asks as she puts the items back in the first aid kit.

 

Root doesn’t reply, just walks towards her bag and grabs an oversized tee, slips it on over the sling.

 

Shaw looks uncomfortable as she steps on the dirty old carpet. “I’ve gotta go,” she says, glancing at the door.

 

“I know,” Root says as she sorts through the bag on the table; searches until she finds one of those plastic glasses with the plastic nose and mustache attached.

 

She walks until feet touch Shaw’s, slips the glasses on; they’re crooked because she can only adjust with one hand, but Shaw’s glare is enough of a reward. “Now no one will recognize you,” she adds.

 

“Except you,” Shaw replies.

 

“Except me,” Root nods as she pulls away and gets the door open, chilly October air rushing into the room. “Be safe, Sameen.”

 

“Right back at you,” Shaw replies as she walks out into the night.

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
